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The Uprising

The Uprising

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Published by hgrevemberg
A change of seasons... a trickle of blood... the universal sound...

Welcome to Field of Weeds, an ongoing series of essays from the streets of LA. This is episode #20 for February 3, 2011: The Uprising.
A change of seasons... a trickle of blood... the universal sound...

Welcome to Field of Weeds, an ongoing series of essays from the streets of LA. This is episode #20 for February 3, 2011: The Uprising.

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Published by: hgrevemberg on Feb 04, 2011
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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he lights cycle quickly at Northrop Grumman, or the important people in nondescript cars. Everyoneis vulnerable. How to stay ahead? The sotware companiesdo it by changing the ormula or every iteration. No choice.You’ve got to upgrade to the new version every season — ev-erything has changed. I’m constantly rereshing my own con-tent. I’d like to make a living at this, but I’m not going to doit or the money. It has to be uncontrolled, or else why writethe revolution? The only control or lter I apply is structural:moving paragraphs together that continue the thought, drop-ping repetitive things, changing a word here or there. I have noconcept o audience, marketing trends — although I do pushthrough social media. I eel the work only marginally, subcon-sciously. It works itsel out beore I understand what it is, as i appearing rom a mist. It looks like it will develop into my own brand o micro–doc. The video shorts and these 2,000 wordessays will probably merge, or a new show will branch romit. These rst 21 essays are sketches only, toward a new ex-pression. Ater the last o these I want to combine essays withexperimental video, something crazy, compelling, ten minutes — the same thing, only condensed, maybe a long essay nowand then, to eed the wolves. I want to descend urther, out o 
the hyperbole and concrete, down to the subconscious. I wantto write the way a child draws, with no reservation or control,completely wild.***I’m being watched. It draws them. The old man stoopsnearly to the oor. An imaginary re, bones and animal skins,the river courses underoot, steel rails; the light through thetrees “exit to street.” What do we know? A trickle o bloodremains on the seat in ront o me. It draws a woman with astraw hat, who turns her bug eyes to the door, suspicious. Her long nails ring on the handrail. Another leap through black spaces lit by blue uorescents and we drit under the bridges.I’m not able to stay adrit or long. No place on the green, ev-eryone taking two seats. I took one anyway, hal out in theaisle.Micro code. No location. Writing the ground. The sto-ry exists only momentarily. It comes out rom the page, re-mains there briey. Can you remember even the last sentence?What’s to tell? The thrumming sound o the black–line state asI pass over Raytheon. A woman crinkles a plastic bag like she’strapped in it, eating her way out — another crime o thesetoxic things that never erode. We y over a slow moving soccer game and one o several elds o weeds. I they would onlyopen the razor wire. We never have a chance. Every street, ev-ery sidewalk has a purpose, all the street lights hang in gentlearches. My eyes all closed, my mind vibrating coarsely.“Excuse me, are you a writer?”How does she know? I’m exhausted rom the weekend,a marathon whirlwind o work in Rancho Mirage remodel-ing the home o a wealthy client, his plasma screens ickering scenes o the Egyptian uprising in every room. It was tremen-dous! How long the people have been enslaved. How manyrepercussions? You can’t grow good quality humans in a dog pen. We are our own demise — and what or? Who benets?
More importantly, are there any heroes anymore?We were not raised in an age o heroes. What ew therewere we’re gunned down. I didn’t know any growing up, hadno role models to emulate — maybe the astronauts, morelikely the ake ones in science ction novels. We live in ction.Movie stars are our royalty. Kye Soen’s oldest, now 14, livesalmost entirely inside an Xbox 360. He doesn’t want to talk tothe people on the outside. We are ar too one–dimensional andprobably disappointing. Maybe it’s better. A revolution onlyhappens once in a lietime. Otherwise it’s all ashing lights,“registration please,” punching the clock, candy or sale…somebody sings a ew bars o an old song, then switches on aradio and sings along with it. He’s good. Sunower seeds romthe guy in ront. “I’ll give you some.” What a crazy, vibrantchord. My nerves are shimmering. Everyone is gentle tonight — this dream — this blue state. The train moves on impervi-ous, but the pulse through the oor, the beat, the moaning…what is lie?“Good to meet you.”My hands are in bad shape rom the rat tunnel I’ve beencrawling through, my tiny heart still racing. I would live someother way, but I need the reedom to sit long retreats, to leavetown, to be pressed to the ground. I wasn’t given a break, soI don’t believe in them, and I don’t admire those that ride onthe sore backs o others. My choice. This state o atigue andadrenaline, I sleep in increments. Dreams boil to the surace,all the small worries magnied, all the ake conversations,overwrought emotions. I’m always glad to pull away. Here I’ma man. Here I’m invincible.***The sweet humming o a train descending underground.We all leap out as i escaping our dreams. A laughing ladypasses me, surely reed rom some pleasant node. How muchis real anymore? How many o us on the platorm observe the

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